


The Critic

by chubbystoutpenguin



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Celebrity Chef Porco, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Lovers, Food Critic Bertholdt, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29172966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chubbystoutpenguin/pseuds/chubbystoutpenguin
Summary: “Porco Galliard is not a chef. I’ll give him celebrity — his foul mouth makes for cheap entertainment when you don’t know what else to watch on TV on a weeknight. But what he is, and what his restaurant is, is a gimmicky, bloated excuse for fame in the culinary world, and irrevocably—“Porco snatched the newspaper from Marcel’s hands and ripped it in half.“Who the hell isB. Hooveranyways?"(In which Porco is a celebrity chef and Bertholdt is his harshest critic)
Relationships: Porco Galliard/Bertolt Hoover
Comments: 33
Kudos: 30





	1. B. Hoover

**Author's Note:**

> Life has been unhinging me so I decided to write this for my own comfort. Sorry, it's just going to be indulgent.
> 
> The visual for this is "mildly unhinged but deeply soft" Porco x Edgetolt in modern AU. Also beware, very little actual research done into the food industry. Again, it's mainly indulgent. I'm also keeping the rating at M for now but please do let me know if it needs to go up because beware, smut in chapters ahead.

“Last Saturday I walked into Porco Galliard’s _The Spotted Swine_ for a revisit, expecting the grand experience that my predecessor touted just six years ago, when Galliard was a ‘talented fresh face’ debuting into the industry. After this experience, I can only say that Galliard indeed has talent; after all, it’s no small feat to deceive the entire world into calling him a ‘chef’ — much less the irk-inducing title ‘celebrity chef’.

“My party ordered the chef’s selection menu (under the naïveté that we were entrusting our dinner to one, of course), and received a gauche selection of gimmicky finger food. With portions that could fit into the palm of my hand, the ‘chef’s’ selection still managed to burn a hole the size of a month's rent in our wallets. But what of the taste, you ask? After all, fine dining is not about portion sizes. It’s about flavors, packed in a punch even through pocket-sized bites.

“Well. It’s sad to say, but Galliard’s food barely swung, if at all. It’s a disgrace to even the loose term that is modern fusion food. The presentation may please you, the splash of colors might fool you into expecting equally vibrant flavors, but the reality is that the experience thereafter is less than satisfactory, or more precisely, _bland_. The potatoes — dingy, boring. The roasted chicken — uninspiring. The only saving point is the wine. Copious amounts of it.

“Porco Galliard is not a chef. I’ll give him celebrity — his foul mouth makes for cheap entertainment when you don’t know what else to watch on TV on a weeknight. But what he is, and what his restaurant is, is a gimmicky, bloated excuse for fame in the culinary world, and irrevocably—“

Porco snatched the newspaper from Marcel’s hands and ripped it in half. He threw it at the fireplace.

Marcel blinked.

“I’m not done reading.” He slowly gestured towards the fireplace. “And you know more than anyone that that’s a fake fireplace.”

“I know!” Porco snapped, pacing back and forth through the living room. “Why the hell did I get an electric one?”

“Alright—“ Marcel stood up, hovering just outside of Porco’s path. “Calm down. Take a breath.”

“How can I, Marce? They called my food gimmicky _._ ” Porco’s voice went up a pitch. “ _Bland!_ ”

“Pock,” a dreamy voice said. Two cool hands reached up from behind, massaging his temples. “Sit down. Come on.”

“No, Pieck—“ He wrestled himself free. “Don’t be nice to me yet. No. I want to—“

He grabbed a cushion from the couch, and screamed into it. Marcel and Pieck looked at each other, unperturbed. “How long do you think this will last?” Marcel whispered.

Porco glared. “I can hear that!”

Marcel shrugged. “I wasn’t exactly trying to hide it from you.”

“But Marce!” Porco grabbed the crumpled newspaper and held the two shredded bits in the air. “This is worth freaking out over. This is a complete disaster.”

“Come on, Pock,” Marcel sighed. “It’s one review.”

“From one of the biggest papers ever! And right before my second restaurant’s opening too —it’s tonight, Marce!” He turned to Pieck, and gestured. “You’re my manager. Tell him.”

Pieck shrugged. “It’s not like we can do much about it.”

Porco gaped. “So I’m supposed to just take this?”

“Yep,” Pieck said. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “I’ll give you talking points if they ask about it in the interview.”

“I have to talk to the _press_ about this?”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Pieck said, “but they’ll definitely ask you about it.”

Porco groaned. He pieced together the paper. “Who the hell is _B. Hoover_ anyways? Why are they hiding behind a pen name? Marcel, search it up!”

Marcel was already on his phone. “I tried,” he said. “There’s a profile on the paper’s website, but there’s no picture. And…” His thumb scrolled. “… there’s nothing else on them.”

“That’s psychotic,” Porco said. “That’s literally psychotic.”

“Actually,” Pieck guided Porco to the couch, sitting him down. “These critics tend to be anonymous. You know this, Pock.”

“Yeah, well—“ he sputtered, “I never have to think about this before because none of them hated me!”

Marcel pressed a glass into Porco’s hands, sloshing with liquor. Porco took a whole mouthful — too much — and he coughed as it burned down his throat. Marcel patted his back. “They don’t hate you,” he said. A pause. “They just hate the restaurant, that’s all.”

Porco glared. “Is that supposed to cheer me up?”

Marcel threw his hands up. “ _I_ love it, if that makes you feel better?”

Porco shook his head. He jabbed at Marcel’s phone. “What other reviews has this guy written? Maybe he’s one of those hipsters who shits on everyone for clout.”

“Well…” Marcel read through his phone. “It says that he’s been with the paper as a food critic for a year now. And he’s reviewed…” Marcel paused. His face paled. “Oh.”

“What?” Porco poked over Marcel’s shoulder to take a peek, but Marcel had covered his screen and jumped away from the couch. Porco frowned. “What is it?”

“Porco,” Marcel said, slowly. “Finish your drink.”

“Marce, just tell me!” He moved to stand up, but Pieck grasped the sleeve of his shirt and pulled him back down. He glanced between the two of them. “Seriously, what is it?”

Pieck pushed on the glass in his hand. “Drink, Pock.”

Fed up, Porco drank. The alcohol shot right up to his head, dizzying him. Pieck’s hands massaged the back of his shoulders as Marcel said, tentatively, “He reviewed Reiner’s restaurant.” Porco’s fist clenched. Marcel softly delivered the final blow: “And he gave it five stars.”

Porco sprang up, lunging for his own phone. He grabbed it just in time before Marcel did, jumping over the coffee table to avoid his grasp. The world swooned under his feet as he evaded Marcel’s chase and tried to type in the name into his browser — _B. Hoover —_ damn it, no, he didn’t mean vacuums, and why did he agree to drinking all that alcohol, because now it’s getting even harder to pinpoint if there was a little _Contact_ button on Hoover’s profile page, and—

He tripped. It was a good thing his rug was an extravagantly furry thing that caught his fall rather well, softening the impact. The only thing bruised — well, completely destroyed at this point — was his ego.

“Whoops,” Pieck said. He had no doubt that she was the one who tripped him over. Her hand came into view, grabbing his phone away from him. “I’ll take that away from you, Pock.”

Porco groaned. “This isn’t fair. You guys made me drink.”

Marcel sighed. “Because we knew you’d be like this.”

He helped Porco up, sitting him back down on the couch. Porco’s head lulled back, defeated. “I just want to shoot them a quick message.”

“And say what, exactly? Don’t embarrass yourself, Porco. Do you want a repeat of bin-gate?”

Porco rolled his eyes. “Maybe so, bin-gate got me my first TV deal.”

Marcel sighed. “This is a critic. You can get yourself in bigger trouble if you don’t take this well.”

“But they tore down my restaurant and praised Reiner’s! Either there’s been a mistake, or…”

“Or they’re just not your target demographic,” Pieck soothed. Her hands were back on Porco’s shoulders, massaging. “Chin up, Pock. Your opening is tonight.”

Marcel forced a huge smile. “And maybe they’ll love the new restaurant!”

“Regardless,” Pieck said, and Porco knew her well enough to understand that this was her pivoting, angling away from something she deemed unrealistic. “We will have _so_ much fun.”

“So much fun,” Marcel echoed.

Porco merely buried himself back into a cushion, and groaned.

——

It was indeed a successful opening, if he might say so himself. He greeted the right guests and shook hands with the right moguls, spending his entire night with the Tyburs, who had funded his ventures.

“If this keeps up,” Willy said, holding onto his hand a tad too long. “We might see another partnership in no time, Porco.”

Porco kept his smile wide for any lingering cameras. “Tell that to _B. Hoover_.”

“Oh, I saw that,” Willy chuckled, finally letting go of his hand. “What’s fame without a little negative publicity?”

Porco supposed he was right. He had started his career working in one of Willy’s restaurants, building up to a partnership on it, and then somehow he had also become a TV personality who yelled at people for entertainment… he truly did thrive on bad publicity. What’s one more?

Then came the interview. He stared, blinking, as camera lights flashed in his vision. No matter how many times he did this, he still felt like a deer in the headlights. Good thing he had drank a fair bit of champagne. A mic prodded into his personal space. “So how would you describe your inspiration for this restaurant, Mr. Galliard?”

Porco nodded. He knew this by heart. He recited whatever he had memorized from Pieck’s cards and the reporters nodded, carefully, seemingly pleased with his answer. He got through the next few questions like this, blatantly repeating whatever he had prepped, as long as it was about the restaurant. As long as it wasn’t about the review. He began to get his hopes up as the interview continued on, as the lights flashed in his eyes, the clock ticking closer to when the session was supposed to end…

Then a hand raised in the back.

“Mr. Galliard,” the voice said. “Can you comment on the recent review on _The Spotted Swine_?”

Porco blinked. The reporter who said it didn’t look familiar, but it wasn’t exactly uncommon. Journalism had a quick turnover, as he learned from the rotation of people who attended these events. But this particular reporter did capture his attention, not only for asking the irksome question, but also for his appearance: tall, handsome. Dark-haired, his olive green eyes scanning Porco lazily. Discerning.

“No comment,” Porco said, quickly. “Hoover is entitled to their opinion, although I stand by the concept and the food.”

He nailed that. He was pretty sure that had been word-for-word by Pieck’s notes. The rest of the questions were mundane, welcomingly so, and the interview session ended unceremoniously.

Porco speed-walked towards the back exit, bursting through the door and finding comfort in the fresh air. He exhaled. That didn’t go too badly, all things considered. Even if that one question gnawed further in his mind, reopening the wound from earlier today. The critic had basically called him a hack. Discredited his work for the past six years.

Porco ruffled through his pockets, disappointment settling in when he couldn’t find his usual pack of cigarettes. It was a bad habit, he knew, one his mother guilted him out of, but he couldn’t help but crave for one at this moment.

He looked around. There was a man lounging against the wall, smoking. Porco approached him. “Can I bum one?”

The man turned to look at Porco. It was the reporter from before.

“Sure,” he said. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a pack. Porco took one.

“Thanks,” he muttered. The reporter held a light to the cigarette. Porco took a welcome drag from it. “You don’t know how much I needed this tonight.”

“Mmh,” the reporter said. “Seems like a busy day, Mr. Galliard.”

Porco glanced at him wearily. “Just call me Porco.”

The reporter looked mildly surprised. Porco gestured towards the ID that hung around his neck by a lanyard. “You’re new, aren’t you?” He squinted and read the card. “Ymir? No last name?”

“Oh, it’s my coworker’s ID,” the reporter said. “I’m standing in her place because she got sick.”

He smiled, sheepishly, the kind of smile that reached the eyes and melted away any edge about him. He almost looked nerdy now, with his slightly disheveled hair and loose shirt cuffs that stuck out sorely from under his sweater.

Porco thought it was endearing. “So what should I call you?”

The reporter hesitated before holding his hand out. “Bertholdt,” he said.

Porco shook his hand, tensely. Bertholdt. He wasn’t sure how to spell that, but he’s pretty sure it started with a _B._ Could it be the B in B. Hoover? He tested the full name out in his mind. Bertholdt Hoover. No, that sounded too ridiculous. No one in their right mind would name their child that.

“Bertholdt,” Porco repeated, taking another glance at the ID card. It’s from a small lifestyle magazine, nothing to the caliber of the paper where the critique was published. Assured, Porco let out a sigh.

“You look relieved,” Bertholdt commented.

Porco’s eyes snapped back on him. Bertholdt’s smile had turned into something akin to a smirk, his eyes gazing down through long lashes. Porco shrugged. “I just thought you might be someone else.”

“And I’m assuming you don’t like this person.”

Was Porco that obvious? He supposed he wasn’t the best at containing his emotions. He needed to vent, to show everything on his sleeve, and it didn’t help that Pieck and Marcel had shut him down this morning.

“You have no idea,” he said, before he could stop himself. “Well, you do, actually, because you asked me about them.”

Bertholdt hummed. “The critic?”

“That’s the one.” Porco glared. “This is off the record, right?”

Bertholdt put his hands up. “I’ve sent my notes to my colleague already. The mic’s off.”

Porco scanned Bertholdt up and down. He saw no real danger in this placid-looking man, so he leaned back and shut his eyes, letting the alcohol and nicotine take over. “Let’s just say I want to send them some choice words,” he said.

Bertholdt nodded. “So you disagree with the review.”

“Of course I do,” Porco exclaimed. His voice began to gain an edge. He tried to tone it down, unsuccessfully. “They’re some coward hiding behind a pen name. The least this person can do is say it to my face.”

“Hmm,” Bertholdt said. He was listening closely. “So if they had used their actual name, you’d accept it?”

“I mean—“ Porco sputtered. “Of course not. I stand by my food and my business. I hate this era where everyone thinks they know food and tries to tear down hard-working chefs for the sake of fame—“

“But didn’t this critic review Reiner Braun’s restaurant and gave it a perfect score?”

Porco stared. Bertholdt stared back, unflinching, the amused smile still on his lips.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Porco said.

The line had left his mouth before he could stop himself. Bertholdt’s smile dropped slightly, a tint of pink rising in his cheeks. Even on his tanned complexion it was visible. Porco faltered. “It’s alright if you don’t—“

“No, it’s fine,” Bertholdt coughed. He regained his composure. “I’m just not used to it, that’s all.”

Porco scanned him up and down. “Really?”

“Well, not all of us have fan forums that worship how hot we are.”

“So you’ve been through one of mine.”

Bertholdt raised an eyebrow. “I never said it was yours.”

“Oh.” Porco stepped closer towards Bertholdt, their bodies bumping against one another, his voice lowering to a purr. “Are you saying you’re not interested, then?”

Now it was Bertholdt’s eyes that flickered down, scanning over Porco. He could swear Bertholdt was pressing back against him. “I didn’t say that either, Mr. Galliard.”

Porco had to admit, he sort of liked the way that nickname rolled off Bertholdt’s lips.

“What are you doing after this?” he asked, bluntly, stamping out his cigarette.

Bertholdt didn’t seem to expect that question. He stepped back, faltering. “I was just going home.”

“Me too,” Porco said. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Want to come home with me?”

Bertholdt _really_ didn’t seem to expect that. The pink was back in his cheeks, even if Bertholdt was laughing, almost as if he was amused. “Mr. Galliard, I—“

“Porco.”

“Porco,” Bertholdt repeated, firmly, smiling. “I have someone waiting for me at home.”

Oh. Well, that sucked.

Porco shrugged and pulled out his wallet. He slipped a business card out of it and pressed it into Bertholdt’s hands.

“If you’re ever free,” he said. “Give me a call.”

Bertholdt stared at the card. “There’s no phone number here.”

“Just email me.”

“It’s a business email.”

“My manager will forward it to me.”

Bertholdt glanced at Porco. “You do booty calls through business emails.”

“Can’t be too careful.” Porco turned to leave, scribbling in the air with one finger. “Write me!”

To be fair, Porco wasn’t expecting anything out of it. He had a bad day and one too many champagnes; he was just looking for a distraction. He sunk into bed that night and fell asleep immediately, barely remembering the reporter with the olive green eyes by the time he woke up.

The critic, however, was a different matter. The scathing words loomed large in the back of his mind and Porco busied himself, jam-packing his schedule with work and interviews and filming — anything to drown out out the dread that the critic may appear once more and tear down his new restaurant. It worked for a while, at least. The days began to blur and Porco felt almost free, almost like he could erase the harsh review from his mind.

Until, one day, he came home to Marcel standing in the middle of the living room.

“Jesus!” Porco yelled, clutching at his chest. “Remind me again why I gave you a key.”

Marcel ignored him. He waved the newspaper in his hand. “It’s out.”

Porco stared. Marcel waved again, more vigorously. “It’s out!”

“Oh no,” Porco muttered.

"Phone," Marcel commanded. Porco reluctantly surrendered it onto the coffee table. Satisfied, Marcel opened the paper. “Should I read it out loud? Yes or no?”

“No,” Porco blurted out. “No, yes. Yes, read it out loud. No, wait!” His hands flailed. “Just read it to yourself, and tell me if it’s good or bad. Yeah.”

Marcel sighed. “Alright, here goes…”

He read. And read. Minutes passed by. Marcel’s face remained stoic, impassive — he was good at that, Porco realized, and that explained why he would always lose in poker games to Marcel, because it’s absolutely impossible to read his expression and oh for the love of god can’t he at least give a hint—

Marcel folded the paper. He smiled at Porco. A beat passed.

“So?” Porco said, impatiently. “Good or bad?”

Marcel gestured towards the door. “Drinks on me?”

Porco groaned, sunk into the couch. He found a cushion and screamed into it. Then he jumped up and snatched the paper from Marcel’s hands, scanning over the review furiously. It had been almost word-for-word as the first one: _Gimmicky. Inauthentic. A snob’s food._

 _“_ Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed. He thrust one hand out, eyes not leaving the paper. “My phone, Marce! My phone! I have to contact this person—“

“Pock, come on, it’s not a good idea. They’re never going to answer.“

“But Marce—“

A soft chime vibrated from his phone. Marcel picked it up before Porco could. His brow knitted at the notification.

“It’s an email from Pieck,” he said. “If I give you the phone, will you _promise_ to only look at the email?”

“What’s wrong with me wanting to contact—“

“Porco,” Marcel said, and once Marcel had taken that tone, even Porco didn’t dare push him. “Only read the email. Understand?”

Porco bit his tongue. “Fine,” he hissed. Marcel pressed the phone into his hand. Porco opened the email.

 _Now what did you do, Pock?_ it said.

Then he scrolled further down, to a section where Pieck had attached another email that was sent to his business address:

_Mr. Galliard_ ,

_You’re absolutely right. I don’t need to hide behind a pen name. I thought that by remaining anonymous, I could get the most authentic experience out of these restaurants. But you’ve made me realize something. You can try to serve the biggest berries on my dessert, lay a red carpet on my arrival, or even compliment me on my appearance (which I'm frankly still a little giddy about). The truth remains: food needs soul, and no amount of flattery or pampering will ever salvage a restaurant that lacks one._

_That being said, I hope you enjoyed the review. You did ask me to write to you._

_Regards,_

_Bertholdt Hoover_

_P.S. At least now I can strike out ‘coward’ from this list of choice words you had for me? I’m still waiting to hear about the rest, by the way._

Porco’s hands were shaking when he put down his phone and picked the paper back up. He zoomed in immediately on the review’s author. Bertholdt Hoover.

“Marcel,” Porco said. “I need you to search something for me.”

Marcel stared at him, worried. “Are you okay, Pock?”

But Porco was already reciting the name of the magazine that he saw on Bertholdt’s ID card. “See if it’s connected to the paper,” he said.

And maybe it was his sudden change in demeanor that made Marcel hurry to his bidding, typing furiously into his phone. Regardless, it gave Porco an opening. He typed in a response directly to Bertholdt’s email:

_Mr. Hoover,_

_I did see the review. Your talent for barbed words is indisputable, although I’m curious what made you qualified to judge what others have worked and finessed upon for all their lives. Have you ever stepped foot into a kitchen or run a business? Designed your own menu? Innovate? Lead?_

_‘Those who can’t do, teach’, they say. I disagree. I think those who can’t do, hide behind keyboards and tear down others who can._

_-Porco Galliard_

_P.S. Here’s some: You can suck it._

He pressed ‘send’. The whooshing sound effect made Marcel perk up in horror.

“Porco,” he said. “What did you do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Edgetolt's email to Porco is inspired by this [article](https://www.forbes.com/sites/lesliewu/2018/07/31/why-some-restaurant-critics-are-shedding-their-disguises/?sh=a62daa930d8e), where Ruth Reichl said that "the berries on a dessert may get bigger, but flaws in service and food execution will remain."  
> 2) Bin-gate is a throwback to [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_British_Bake_Off_\(series_5\)#%22Bingate%22)  
> 3) Yeah, Porco was totally modeled after Gordon Ramsay and Bertholdt loosely after Pete Wells. Oof, did I just write a Gordon Ramsay x Pete Wells fanfic?  
> 4) Marcel's nickname "Marce" is pronounced like "Mars". Not me getting this idea from Love Island.  
> 5) The Spotted Swine is based on The Spotted Pig in NYC.


	2. Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porco tried to put the reviews behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still writing this fic for self-comfort. Needless to say any aspect of the food industry in this fic will be v shallowly explored lol, I'm not an expert. And forgot to mention, I think they’re all in their early 30s in this fic. 
> 
> Dare I suggest the [VSQ cover of bad guy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u3UVOjiorHE&ab_channel=TVSeries%26MovieSoundtrack2) as the song for the chase scene?

_“So you recently decided to come out with your full name.”_

A light chuckle. Bertholdt was holding up a newspaper that obstructed his face from the viewers, but Porco recognized that voice.

 _“I’ve been thinking of doing it for a while,”_ Bertholdt said. _“It’s not entirely possible to stay anonymous in this age anyways, so I don’t see the point in hiding behind a half-hearted pen name. It’s a best effort thing these days. For example, I still dine in restaurants under a fake name.”_

_“… And hold up newspapers in interviews like this.”_

Laughter. The newspaper bobbed slightly.

 _“Yes,”_ Bertholdt said. _“No doubt someone will eventually know what I look like, but there’s not much they can do to cover up whatever’s lacking anyways. I have to thank a good friend for making me realize that.”_

Porco’s grip around his pen tightened.

_“I see. So what do you consider ‘lacking’? You seem to view pretension in distaste, at least.”_

Bertholdt sighed. _“You’re right, I do. I see this evolution with a lot of chefs where they forget the roots of what made their food good in the first place. They try to fake something they don’t believe in and instead cater their visions to their elite customer base. I guess you can say I’m looking for authenticity.”_

_“Authenticity… I can’t imagine some of the subjects of your negative reviews being happy about being called ‘fake’, essentially. Has anyone ever written back to you?”_

A beat. The newspaper rustled. _“A couple,_ ” Bertholdt replied. _“I always enjoy reading through them.”_

Annie slammed the laptop shut.

Porco looked up. “That video isn't even halfway done!”

“I don’t care.” She pointed to the order forms on Porco’s desk. “Sign it.”

“But Annie,” he waved his hands, “it was getting to the good part. On minute eight they zoomed in on the paper he was holding up and I’m pretty sure it’s the one from when my review was published—“

“So you’ve watched this before,” Annie panned.

Porco blanched. “Possibly.”

“And you’re just conveniently watching it again when you called me to your office.” Annie folded her arms. A pause. “You want me to watch the video, don’t you?”

Porco brightened.

“Thank goodness,” he muttered, opening the laptop. “Now I don’t have to fish around anymore.” He jabbed at the screen. “Don’t you think he’s obsessed with me?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Not really, no.”

“Come on, he made at least three references to me!”

“You’re the one who seems obsessed right now.”

“Well—“ Porco sputtered. “He’s written two bad reviews about me—“

“Uh huh.”

“And he referred to me as a ‘good friend’, the _nerve—“_

Annie’s eyes glazed, looking far off. “Okay.”

“And do I even have to bring up the incident at the opening?”

“For at least five times now, yes.”

“Well, can you blame me? it’s just so unethical to wear a fake badge and not disclose himself as a critic, especially when he’s talking to one of his subjects, and—“

“And said subject is hitting on him?”

Porco glared. “I didn’t tell you about that part.”

Annie shrugged. “Pieck told me that’s the key to get you to stop ranting. Now,” she jabbed at the papers, “sign it. I’ve been here five minutes too long.”

Porco grumbled. “What happened to small talk?” He scrawled his signature. “Friendship? Lending an ear?”

“Not when I have a kitchen to run. _Your_ kitchen.”

He sighed. “Can’t you at least say one good thing to me, for old times’ sake?”

Annie paused. She scrutinized Porco. For a moment, she actually seemed thoughtful. “You’ve been through worse,” she finally said. “The restaurants are doing fine. If anything, there’s more hype around it now.”

Then she pulled the most painful-looking smile Porco had ever seen. He could tell it was taking her entire willpower to do it.

“Alright, thank you,” he said, a little afraid.

Annie’s smile dropped immediately. “And lose the bandana.” She gathered the papers and turned away. “I don’t know if this is related to your mid-life crisis, but you can’t pull it off.”

Porco grabbed at it. “Wait, really?”

But the door had slammed shut. He sheepishly pulled the bandana off, his hair loosely falling onto his forehead. He supposed he hadn’t really been on top of his appearances in the past few weeks, all thanks to a certain you-know-who that everyone around him was apparently sick of hearing. At this point, only his mother would listen to him.

He stood up and peered out of his office window, just above the restaurant. The outdoor seating was bustling with life, conversations and laughter wafting up to where he stood. Annie was right, business had been good as usual, even if online debates around his restaurants were heating up last time he checked. He would check again, but Pieck had put parental control over his phone and locked down access to those forums.

“You’re lucky, Pock,” she’d said, her smile wide, eyes deadly. “Looks like he didn’t tell anyone else about your encounter. And I was ready to pay your publicist overtime.”

He’d whined. “But he started it!”

He supposed it was dumb to respond to Bertholdt’s email. But what was he supposed to do? It had been a declaration of war. Still, he felt sort of relieved when Bertholdt never replied back. The thread now sat abandoned in his inbox.

It was for the best. The discussions would eventually die down, and he could move on with his life. In fact, Bertholdt had published other reviews, some equally scathing, and the spotlight wasn't entirely on him anymore. Porco really should be happy.

Still, something gnawed on him. For one, the reviews still made him bristle. Sure, he had been the subject of many other less-than-stellar reviews — some criticizing his theatrics on TV, some giving lukewarm responses to his restaurants — but no one as big as Bertholdt had disparaged him to the point of calling him _fake._

Another issue, one he would never admit to anyone, was that he found himself still thinking of Bertholdt occasionally. His eyes especially, the way they could be wide and kind in one moment, downcast and critical in another. And his lips, the sharp words that rolled out of them. The way Bertholdt had pressed against him in that alley. Sometimes, he thought of still asking Bertholdt to come over, and taking out his frustrations by—

Porco shook his head. _What is wrong with him?_

The only solution is to vent to his mother and reinforce his hatred for Bertholdt. Grabbing his phone, he went straight to his mother’s contact and dialed it.

No answer. It went straight to voicemail.

Dejected, Porco went through his calendar instead. He felt somewhat cheered by the fact that it was blocked through the entire day: lunch with the new apprentices in fifteen minutes, then an event promoting Tybur’s new chocolatier in the evening… It’d be another day full of socializing, preening and schmoozing. Better than ruminating, he supposed.

Sighing, he stood up. Might as well go early to the lunch. He stopped by the mirror on his way out, staring at himself.

 _You’ve been through worse,_ Annie’s words resonated. _The restaurants are doing fine._

And she’s right. Bertholdt Hoover could suck it.

———

“—And this is our oldest ruby port…”

A small trickle of wine filled their glasses. Marcel looked around as the crowd around the table swished the glasses and held them close to their noses. When they started to sip, he followed suit.

Porco spat his back out, as did the others. Marcel blanched.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “So it’s that kind of tasting.”

Porco patted his back. “No one’s looking.”

“I don’t know why you bring me to these events anyways, I’m like a fish out of water.”

Porco swapped his filled glass for Marcel’s empty one. “Happy? Now you’re the sophisticated one.”

Marcel grinned. “Just keep doing that so I can at least be buzzed by the time I’m out of here.” He leaned in and whispered, “Can I actually eat the chocolates?”

“When they tell you to, yes.”

“Oh thank goodness.”

“Now,” the instructor said, gesturing. “Please open your first chocolate bar and break off a square.”

Marcel excitedly did so.

“I want you to wait for a few seconds and smell it—“

Marcel glanced at Porco, horrified, the chocolate already in his mouth. Porco bit back a laugh.

“—and don’t bite into it—“ Marcel stopped chewing abruptly. “— Just let it melt on your tongue and try to perceive what you’re tasting…“

“I’m really not doing well here,” he mumbled.

The instructor clapped her hands cheerfully. “Anyone wants to share their thoughts on the tasting notes?”

“Yes,” Porco said, raising his hand. Then pointed it at Marcel. “He does.”

He received a sharp elbow to the side, but the look on Marcel’s face was still worth it. The instructor looked at them expectantly.

“Uh,” Marcel muttered. “Citrus?”

“Yes, very close!” she laughed. “Our tasting notes list a grapefruit pith finish.”

Marcel cast a bemused look at Porco. “What the hell is a pith?”

Porco had to stifle back his laugh for the rest of the event. When they finally left, he could feel Marcel physically sagging with relief.

“Please,” he muttered. “Just take me to the fun parties with open bars.”

Porco slung one arm around his shoulder. “We’re literally heading to one right now. Cheer up.”

The Tyburs always threw lavish parties to promote their various ventures. This event was no exception — the venue was huge. Porco couldn’t believe a building like this still existed in the city. While the tastings were done in an intimate, quiet room, the party hall was an ostentatious ballroom that sparkled with chandeliers and crystalware brimming with wine, passed around to guests who were filtering in. Pieck was already waiting for him.

“Come,” she said, grabbing at Porco. “Willy wants you to pose with the product for the press.”

“Okay, but Marcel—“

“I’ll babysit your brother, don’t worry.”

Marcel looked offended. “Hey…”

Porco went to find Willy. The moment he did, a bottle of wine and a chocolate bar was shoved into his hands. “Pose for a few photos,” he said, ushering Porco in front of the cameras. “And smile!” He left.

Porco blinked. The cameras were already flashing. “How should I—“

“Hold it like a purse!” Pieck exclaimed.

Porco grimaced. “How _do_ I hold a purse?”

He was pushed out of the set, eventually. He passed on the wine and now slightly-melted chocolate bar to the next person and went to grab himself a drink. At least now he had nothing to do but to enjoy the party.

“Behave,” Pieck told him. “Some of the critics are here today.”

Porco flinched. “Why? It’s just a promotional event.”

“Willy wants them to write good reviews to boost the opening, duh.”

“Well,” Porco mumbled. “There’s no way Bertholdt’s paper would do something like that.”

“But a lifestyle magazine endorsed by said paper might.”

Porco looked between Pieck and Marcel. “Oh, come on.”

“Like I said,” Pieck said, smiling. She touched Porco’s nose affectionately. “Behave.”

“We’re not even sure he works for that magazine, right?” Marcel assured. “You said he was just a substitute.”

Porco grimaced. “Who knows? It could be another lie. That man is capable of anything.”

Pieck looked amused. “Here we go again.”

“Excuse me, it was a harrowing experience!”

“I think it’s more funny that you propositioned the man who quote-and-quote ruined your life.”

“I didn’t know it was him!”

Marcel sighed. “Alright, let’s not rile him up. He’s spent the past few weeks on the couch, crying to our mother on the phone.”

“I was _not_ crying!” Porco exclaimed, flushed. “And I don’t know why you’ve been hanging around a lot these days!”

Marcel glanced at him. “Why do you think?” he muttered. “Mama told me to keep you company.”

“Seriously?”

“Relax, Pock,” Pieck said. She clinked her glass against his. “It’s a party. You’re rich. Famous. This Bertholdt Hoover gave you nothing but free publicity.”

Marcel nodded. “And you can hit on anyone here. I mean, preferably not another journalist, but…”

“Okay! Okay, I get it,” Porco sighed. He raised his glass to toast. “To moving onwards, I suppose.”

“Moving onwards.”

The night flew. The drinks flowed. The hall was absolutely bustling as more guests arrived, food and chocolate disappearing quickly from the servers’ trays. Porco stayed even after Marcel and Pieck had left for the night — something about having a “day job” and not having staff to do their every bidding, they said.

“Behave,” Pieck said, one last time. Porco rolled his eyes.

He found himself milling at the edge of the hall after they left. For once, no one actually accosted him to try and network. He sipped at his wine, listening as music from the string quartet swelled over the chatter, the violin playing sharp, playful notes. No one in the crowd caught his interest. He supposed he could go home — he had long finished his duty — but the idea of going back to his big empty apartment also felt off. At least here, he could be surrounded by life, and music, and —

The violin solo quavered to a quiet halt. He caught onto a dark-haired man, his head bobbing well above the crowd. Their eyes met.

As the quartet burst back into life, Bertholdt smiled.

Porco almost spilled his wine all over himself. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe it was someone else.

But then Bertholdt raised one hand to wave at him. The loose cuff poking out from a sweater was all the tell Porco needed.

For a moment he stood there, frozen, unsure of what to do. _Behave_ , Pieck’s warning chimed in his head. _Behave._ But the word was mixing well with the five (six?) drinks he’d had that night, and drowning with each second that passed, weakening as their eyes continued to be locked on each other.

And then, just like that, Bertholdt turned away. He walked further into the crowd, towards the exit. Out of the hall.

It jolted Porco awake. He abandoned his glass on the floor and gave chase. The tempo of the music picked up, each note propelling him forward, jostling through the crowd. In the few times he thought he’d lose his ground, Bertholdt would pause, giving him just enough time to catch up, but never enough to fully reach him. Porco gritted his teeth. This was a challenge, he realized. It must be.

Eventually he got out of the hall. The corridors were thankfully much sparser, and it was easier to spot Bertholdt going up a winding staircase, disappearing to the second floor. Porco followed and broke into a half-jog, taking two steps at a time.

Upstairs, he looked around. The music from the hall was dim now, far-off. He felt a draft coming in from the end of the hallway and decided to follow it, eventually reaching an open balcony door. Porco stepped out into the fresh air.

“And here I thought I could have some time alone.”

Porco turned. Bertholdt was sitting by the small table in the corner, picking at a plate of food.

Now Porco’s tongue-tied. Why did he have to be tongue-tied _now_? There were so many things he wanted to say that they all just collided into nothing.

Bertholdt smiled. “I never thought I’d see the day Porco Galliard is lost for words.”

That snapped him back. “Oh, fuck you.” He pointed at Bertholdt, accusingly. “I can’t believe you talked to me at the opening and pretended that you weren’t—“

“I didn’t pretend,” Bertholdt panned, sipping at his wine. “You just assumed I wasn’t the critic.”

“And you let me!”

“In my defense, it was very funny.”

Porco glared. “I’m surprised you even decided to reveal yourself. You know that I could’ve outed you, right?”

Bertholdt smiled. “But I know you won’t, Mr. Galliard.”

His fist clenched. “Oh?”

“You’d be too proud to even try and tip off your competitors. And… “ He shrugged. “I’ll never revisit your restaurants. So no harm done.”

Bertholdt had hit right on the mark. “You _are_ an asshole.”

“Being right doesn’t make me an asshole.”

“But you aren’t right,” Porco said, heated. “Your reviews certainly aren’t, for instance.”

Bertholdt sighed. “If you’re here to try and convince me to retract my review, Mr. Galliard, then I—“

“Seriously?” Porco interrupted. He marched towards the table. “You know, I understand now why your email got under my skin so badly. It’s because you’re insinuating that I would try to game your opinion.”

Bertholdt blinked. “Oh.”

“I’m not the kind of person who would try to manipulate a good review out of someone.” He jabbed his finger in the air again. “That’s just insulting.”

There was a pause.

“I see,” Bertholdt finally said. “Then I apologize.”

It caught Porco by surprise. “All I’m saying is,“ he exclaimed, grasping for words, “that I really don’t care what you have to say anyways, so—”

“Oh, yes,” Bertholdt said. “Don’t worry, I got your email.”

Porco felt his ears heating up. “Look, my point is—“

“Your point is,” Bertholdt cut in. His voice was calm. “That you have your opinion and I have mine. And nothing can change that.”

Another pause. If Porco strained, he could still hear the string quartet playing in the distance. “I guess so,” he mumbled.

It was suddenly very awkward. Did they just reach a stalemate? And why had Porco even decided to come up here? He’d really rather jump off the balcony right now than go back to the party with his tail tucked between his legs. He looked over the bannister, gauging the distance: it didn’t seem like such a long drop.

“You know, Mr. Galliard,” Bertholdt suddenly said, breaking his train of thoughts. “I have to say I was pretty disappointed in your email.”

Oh god. Porco shoved his hands into his pockets. “Okay, look, it was a lapse in judgement—“

“I meant,” Bertholdt clarified. “I expected something more creative.”

That gave him pause. “What?”

“Your P.S.”

Porco stared at him, bewildered. “What were you expecting?”

Bertholdt shrugged. “Didn’t you call Reiner Braun a ‘rhinoceros with thumbs’?” He chuckled. “I’m rather jealous. I was hoping to get something as colorful.”

“What—“

“Or is it because I’m so cute that even you can’t come up with anything?”

Porco sputtered. Then he started to laugh, when the initial shock had worn off. He didn’t know what game Bertholdt was playing, but he supposed he could play along. “I’ll be more than happy to try and write you a new one.”

“Really?” Bertholdt sighed. “And here I am, about to take you up on your invitation.”

Porco frowned. “Invitation?”

“Your P.S.,” Bertholdt repeated. He stared straight at Porco. “Provided you mean it literally.”

It took a few minutes for the whole interaction to click. His P.S. The part where he told Bertholdt to— Oh.

“Are you serious?” His words came out sounding more curious than surprised.

Bertholdt set down his wine glass. “Why would I not be?”

“Because…” Porco felt that at some point during the evening, he had stepped into another dimension. He felt dizzy. “I thought you were taken?”

Bertholdt frowned. “When did I say that?”

“You said someone was waiting for you at home!”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “It’s just a… roommate.”

“And—“ Porco’s head was still spinning. “Because we hate each other?”

“I don’t need to like someone to have sex with them.”

Oh, so they’re saying it out loud now. Okay. At least Porco wasn’t on the wrong track.

“Unless you don't want to,” Bertholdt suddenly said. If that was his insecurity showing, it didn’t last long. “Although I do seem to remember you hitting on me pretty hard the other day.”

Porco snorted. His confusion was gone, replaced by a morbid amusement. He really should’ve shot Bertholdt down, take a stab at his ego like Bertholdt’s reviews had done with his own. But wasn’t this what he had been guiltily dreaming of? And probably why he had chased after Bertholdt in the first place? Plus: he was tipsy, and the idea of having Bertholdt use his mouth on him was taking root quickly. He couldn’t just give it right away, though. “I don’t know,” he said, feigning disinterest. “How do I even know this would be worth it?”

Bertholdt raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t know you’re more particular with your hook-ups than with your own menu.”

Oh, damn it. But the heat that rose inside him wasn’t anger or irritation, he realized. He wanted Bertholdt. “You _are_ an asshole.”

Bertholdt smiled. “And yet you’re still here.”

He stood up and picked out a chocolate square from his plate. Porco was once again taken aback by how tall Bertholdt loomed, how close he was standing to him right now.

“If you’re so worried, Mr. Galliard,” Bertholdt said. “Then I’ll give you a preview.”

He opened his mouth and slowly, deliberately, put the chocolate on his tongue. Porco could only stare as Bertholdt’s lips closed over it. He began to lean in, those lips looming closer and closer, finally stopping just a hair’s breadth away from Porco’s. A silent ask for consent, he realized. Or a tease.

_Behave._

“Damn it,” Porco said.

He closed the gap and pressed their lips together. His hand fisted into Bertholdt’s collar, pulling him down, closer. The chocolate swirling between their tongues, melting fast in the heat.

They broke apart long after the chocolate was gone. Porco licked his lips, tasting whatever was left.

“Raspberry,” they said, simultaneously. Then stared at each other.

“And wine,” Bertholdt followed.

Porco rolled his eyes. “Duh.”

He couldn’t bother to check if their tasting note had been correct. Instead, he looked at Bertholdt.

“So,” he said. “Want to come home with me?”

Bertholdt’s smile was all the answer he needed.

———

It was probably not the wisest of decisions. Porco fidgeted the whole time in the cab, which he rode _alone_ , because Bertholdt had insisted on taking the train instead.“It would be too suspicious if we go into the car together,” he said. “I don’t want to make it into one of the tabloids.”

The traffic was busy. When he finally made it into his apartment building, Bertholdt was already sitting outside, scribbling something in a notebook. He didn’t even look up when Porco reached him. “You’re late,” he said.

Porco snorted. “This isn’t even a date.”

Bertholdt stuffed his notebook back into his bag. “I did tell you the train would be faster.”

Porco bit back a response. It didn’t matter. If Bertholdt was still game, it meant he’d be shutting up in a few minutes’ time. He grabbed at Bertholdt’ wrist and led him through the lobby, past the doormen who averted their eyes respectfully. The staff in the building had long known to turn a blind eye to who the tenants brought home.

Once they were alone in the elevator, Porco pushed Bertholdt up against the wall and kissed him, long and hard. Bertholdt didn’t even so much as lean into the kiss. He simply stood there, annoyingly tall, while Porco tried as hard as possible to avoid standing on his tiptoes.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, dragging Bertholdt’s lower lip with his teeth.

“And you’re full of yourself.”

Porco grinned. “Imagine how much worse I would be after this.”

Bertholdt rolled his eyes.

They stumbled out of the elevator and entered the apartment. Bertholdt dropped his bag and looked around, dazed.

“You have a river view,” he mumbled. “I guess I shouldn’t expect any less.”

Porco grinned. “Better yet, I have a terrace. I’ll fuck you facing the river if you’d like.”

Color began to creep into Bertholdt’s cheeks. He regained his composure quickly. “Getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?” He pressed Porco against the back of the couch, unbuttoning his shirt. Porco groaned as Bertholdt’s lips latched just under his earlobe, breath hot on his skin. “I haven’t even had a taste of you.”

“You should be unzipping my pants right now and not—

“I want to see you.” Bertholdt made quick work through the rest of the buttons and shed the shirt along with Porco’s jacket. He stepped back and stared. “So I guess you weren’t edited in your TV shows.”

Porco was relishing in the look on Bertholdt’s face. “You know, when you call me ‘cheap entertainment’ in your review… I’m starting to think you were using me as a different kind of entertainment.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Bertholdt mumbled, eyes still darting down. Porco realized they were following the swirls of ink that was the boar tattoo on his chest. “You really are not a subtle guy.”

“Then why are you practically drooling?” Porco grabbed Bertholdt by the waist, pulling him in. “Now shush.”

He went for another kiss, one with more teeth than lips — and slipped his hands under Bertholdt’s shirt to try and tug it over his head. Bertholdt’s hands grabbed at his wrists, stopping him. He tutted. “We play by my rules tonight, Mr. Galliard.”

Porco had half a mind to break out of Bertholdt’s grip. But the tone that Bertholdt had taken — low, almost commanding — sent electricity down his body. He could feel his pants tightening, straining for attention.

“Tease,” he mumbled.

Bertholdt smiled. “Don’t be impatient.”

Slowly, deliberately, Bertholdt leaned in and landed kisses on Porco’s neck, softly at first, then firm and eager, eventually settling on a spot and suckling on it. Porco hissed. He wanted to pull Bertholdt closer, grind his growing erection against him, but Bertholdt’s hands remained firm on his wrists, pinning them back against the couch. If it was Bertholdt’s intention to get him frustrated, it was definitely working.

Just as he thought he couldn’t take it any longer, Bertholdt began to move, lower, peppering kisses down his chest, his abdomen. Porco’s mind was growing hazy. He didn't even realize when Bertholdt released his hands and worked through his belt, unbuckling it quickly.

“Shit,” he muttered. He had vaguely prepared himself for this during the ride home, but seeing it in person was something else. Bertholdt, on his knees, unzipping his pants, pulling it down, and—

When Bertholdt’s hand finally wrapped around him, he let out a strained laugh. “Just like you imagined?”

Bertholdt’s eyes snapped up to him. “Don’t you have enough people worshipping you?”

“Oh, but I want to hear you say it.” Porco grinned. “Or rather, show it.”

Bertholdt didn’t react, but Porco noted how his eyes were glazing over, fixated on him. That already spoke volumes to him.

“Like I said.” Bertholdt began to pump. Porco’s grip on the couch tightened. “You’ll have to be patient, Mr. Galliard.”

“Shit,” he mumbled. How did a hand feel this good? It’s not like he hadn’t gotten handjobs before. Or maybe it’s because it’s Bertholdt who’s doing it — Bertholdt Hoover, who had thought Porco’s work was below him — and yet here he was, quite literally stroking his ego—

He didn’t finish that thought, because there were suddenly lips on him — wet, hot kisses trailing up and down his length. Porco hissed and bucked his hips. He ran one hand through Bertholdt’s hair.

“Let me fuck your face,” he blurted out. He loathed how desperate he sounded.

Bertholdt’s eyes spelled out a challenge. “Say please.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Say please,” Bertholdt said, mouth pressed up against Porco’s tip. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “How badly do you want this?”

Porco glared. Pretty badly, he realized.

“ _Please_ ,” he spat out, fingers taking root in Bertholdt’s hair. “I want to shut you the fuck up.”

Bertholdt’s hands crept up to his thighs, bracing himself. “Don’t go easy.”

Porco didn’t need to be asked twice. The moment Bertholdt wrapped his mouth around him, he bucked his hips, thrusting into the heat that was Bertholdt’s mouth. _Shit_. He didn’t realize how good this would feel, or how hot it would be to see Bertholdt’s kiss-swollen lips wrapped around him.

Bertholdt’s fingers squeezed around his thighs, an urge to go on. Porco grinned and began thrusting again, picking up his pace. A heat pooled low in his abdomen as he continued fucking Bertholdt’s mouth, low moans involuntarily escaping his own lips. When he looked down, he was met with Bertholdt’s half-lidded eyes — the same eyes that had stared him down during the interview, the same eyes that were now glazing over with lust, tearing up slightly as Bertholdt continued to take Porco’s entire length, not faltering in the least.

“Tell me if you need to stop,” Porco panted, slowing down. It only earned him a tight squeeze around his thighs, Bertholdt’s nails digging into his skin. Taking it as a command to keep going, Porco picked his pace back up and grinned. “You really are something, you know?”

The heat in his gut began to spread, building to a climax. He shut his eyes and tuned everything out, focusing only on how tight and hot Bertholdt’s mouth felt around him, the noises they were making. He briefly thought of pulling out and coming onto Bertholdt’s face, but in the end he couldn’t bother to, instead spilling out into Bertholdt’s mouth. Porco groaned, riding the last throes of pleasure as his hand fisted even tighter into Bertholdt’s hair.

When he finally regained his bearings and pulled out, Bertholdt had swallowed. Porco leaned back against the couch, trying to catch his breath. His legs felt like jelly.

Bertholdt stood up, casually, wiping at his mouth. “Tissues?” he asked.

Porco glanced at him wearily. He gestured towards the coffee table. “Help yourself.”

Bertholdt went to clean up. Porco took a minute to gather himself, pulling his pants back up. Did that really just happen? On one hand, he could imagine the kind of chiding he would get from Pieck if this ever got out. On the other, this was better than he could ever dream of. He wouldn’t forget the sight of Bertholdt on his knees anytime soon.

Bertholdt suddenly reappeared in front of him. He picked up his bag from the floor and nodded at Porco.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see myself out.”

Porco blinked, taken aback. “I haven’t gotten you off.”

“Oh.” Suddenly Bertholdt seemed embarrassed. Now, of all times? “You don’t have to.”

“Are you kidding me?” Porco exclaimed. He sauntered over to Bertholdt, pointedly grabbing between his legs. Bertholdt faltered a little. “You’re hard!”

“Yes, but—“

“Do you not want me to?”

Bertholdt looked at Porco. “No, that’s not it.”

“Then sit down,” Porco said. He couldn’t believe he had to convince Bertholdt for this.

Bertholdt gingerly sat down on the edge of the sectional. Porco clambered over him, pulling him to another kiss. His hands quickly unbuttoned and pulled down Bertholdt’s khakis.

“Next time you assume I won’t return the favor,” Porco grumbled. “I’m going to actually leave you hanging.”

Bertholdt blinked. “Won’t that actually prove me right?“

Porco hissed. “Bertholdt.“ He reached down and began stroking. “Shut up.”

He liked it much better when Bertholdt finally closed his eyes and relaxed, breath hitching as Porco spat onto his hand and stroked faster, harder. This was a good sight, too, Bertholdt losing the last of his control, fighting back moans and involuntarily thrusting back into Porco’s fist. It didn’t take long to make him come, and Porco grabbed a tissue just in time to catch the splatter. Bertholdt slumped back onto the couch, spent.

“You must be _really_ on the edge,” Porco muttered, throwing the dirtied tissues into the trash. “And you were going to leave, just like that.”

Bertholdt looked at him sheepishly. He shimmied his pants back up. “I didn’t know.”

“You really think so lowly of me.”

Bertholdt sighed. “Don’t be dramatic, Mr. Galliard.”

“Porco,” he corrected.

“Oh?”

Porco stared at Bertholdt. “Save ‘Mr. Galliard’ for bed.”

“Hmm,” Bertholdt hummed. He straightened up. “Already making plans for the future?”

“You should be so lucky.” Porco planted a kiss on Bertholdt’s cheek. “Although I do like that idea of you on the terrace.”

Again Bertholdt’s cheeks grew warm, even if his tone belied any embarrassment. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

“Oh, I think I will.” Porco stood up and stretched. “After all, you must be pretty desperate to come to me of all people for sex.”

Bertholdt shrugged. “And you accepted. What does that say about you?”

Porco snorted. “I like you so much better when you have my dick in your mouth.”

A phone rang through the apartment, cutting through Bertholdt’s retort. Porco jolted. He knew that ringtone by heart. Scrambling around the couch, he went through his discarded jacket and wrestled the phone out of its pocket. He answered it.

“Hi, Mama,” he whispered.

Bertholdt visibly began to hold back a laugh. Porco glared and swatted at him.

 _“Pock, I’m sorry I missed your call,”_ Mrs. Galliard said. _“Are you okay? Is that critic bothering you again?”_

Shit. He forgot how loud his mother spoke. He’s pretty sure that’s audible even through the phone receiver. He closed his hand over the phone and rushed towards the bedroom.

“No, no,” he said, still hushed, in case Bertholdt could hear. “I’m fine. I was just calling to ask how you’re doing.”

Mrs. Galliard laughed. _“Of course I’m fine! It’s you who I worry about.”_ She paused. _“Why are you whispering?”_

Porco closed the bedroom door behind him. He cleared his throat. “Nothing, I just… don't want my neighbors to hear.”

_“You live in a penthouse, dear.”_

Wow, he’s really not on top of his game today. “Someone’s here,” he finally admitted.

 _“Oh.”_ A beat. His mother’s tone was playful when she said, _“I’m assuming it’s not Pieck or Marce.”_

He sighed. “It’s just a friend, Mama.”

_“Well, I’ll let you get back to them—“_

“No, wait!”

_“Pock, I didn’t teach you to be rude to your guests.”_

Porco grumbled. “Okay, fine. I’ll call you later.” He added, quickly: “I swear it’s just a friend!”

Mrs. Galliard laughed before the call shut off. Porco went back out into the living room, bracing himself for the teasing.

But all that greeted him was silence. Bertholdt had left. He was surprised to find that he felt slightly disappointed — that is, until his phone chimed with a notification. It was an email.

_I see Mama’s heard of me._

_Regards,_

_Bertholdt Hoover_

Porco groaned. He barely looked at his screen when he typed back: _Turn off your signature, you jerk._

Then, slumping back onto the couch, he dialed his mother. Suddenly he had a lot more to complain about.


	3. Encore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porco found that once wasn't enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I'm sure I'll regret posting this in the dead of the night. Anyways, expect ninja edits later on.
> 
> Also sorry I disappeared for a month! Work was incredibly busy and I'm sure it'll continue on this month but at least I have this 7K monstrosity? Hope you enjoy!
> 
> warning: smut in the first half

_Mr. Hoover,_

_wyd._

He pressed send.

A good thirty seconds later, he immediately regretted it. That must be the most ridiculous email he had ever sent.

It’s not as if the thread of conversation had been lively. In fact, it had remained silent since the last time they were together. Every time Porco found a spare minute in his busy schedule to even think about restarting the conversation, he found himself shirking away, or actually being pulled to another task. Somehow, two weeks had gone by without a word between them.

He’d love to just move on. He thought that was the point of inviting Bertholdt over last time, to get it out of his system, but all it did was fan the flame further. He wanted more of Bertholdt’s mouth, eyes, the fight he gave at every turn. His biting remarks that rivaled Porco’s own. The way it was surprisingly easy to make Bertholdt blush even through his snarky facade.

Still, his pride wouldn’t let him be the first to give in. Until now, that is. Sitting there in the middle of a crowded rooftop deck, tipsy and warm from the evening sun, he felt only a certain loneliness, his defenses lowering. Hence, that email.

He checked his phone — no reply. Impatient, he typed in a follow-up message.

 _As for me,_ he wrote, _I’ve been thinking about your mouth._

He sent it. Porco sighed and slumped back onto the hot canvas that was his lounge chair. He’d be patient this time, he thought. If Bertholdt didn’t reply, then he’d drop it for good. Porco Galliard doesn’t chase people, and Bertholdt, _especially_ Bertholdt, was not going to be an exception—

His phone chimed. He almost dropped it in his haste to open the email.

 _Mr. Galliard,_ it read. _Apparently, I’m now reading your horny emails._

Bertholdt had turned off his signature. So he did pay attention to Porco’s messages.

Porco quickly typed in a response. _Would a text be better?_

He wrote his phone number and sent it off. Suddenly the heat of the sun felt unbearable.Porco stood up and walked into the indoor area of the lounge, tactfully dodging the Tyburs’ attention and sneaking out into the elevator lobby. It felt calmer here, the muted beats of electronic music far behind him. He paced around, restless.

His phone vibrated. An unknown number was calling him. Against his better judgement, he answered it. “Hello?”

A rustle. _“Do you always answer calls from people you don’t know?”_

Porco couldn’t help but grin. “Only if there’s a chance that it’s a pesky reporter.”

_“Am I not the only one?”_

“Don’t be jealous.”

Bertholdt sighed. _“I’m not. I just take pride in being the only one to get under Porco Galliard’s skin, that’s all.”_

Porco snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. I hate all reporters equally.”

 _“Hmm.”_ Bertholdt’s low voice felt silky even through the static. _“And yet you just gave your number to one.”_

“What can I say?” Porco looked around. He spotted a single-stall bathroom and quickly went inside, locking himself inside it. “I can’t stop thinking about how good your mouth felt.”

Bertholdt audibly clicked his tongue. _“I’m still at work, Mr. Galliard.”_

Porco checked his watch. Huh. He supposed it was only five P.M. on a Wednesday. “I really thought it’d be later.”

_“It gets hard to track the time when you’re day-drinking, I know.”_

Porco frowned. “How do you know that?”

 _“I write for food and culture,”_ Bertholdt panned. _“The Tyburs opened a new lounge today. Naturally I’ll assume you’re a mandatory appearance.”_

“Stalker.”

_“Well, I am, as you say, a pesky reporter.”_

“And is it part of your job to be calling me on the clock?”

 _“Not exactly.”_ Bertholdt hummed. _“But you did give me your number. What kind of a reporter would I be to turn down an exclusive?”_

Porco rolled his eyes. “Are you really calling from your desk? In front of your coworkers?”

A pause. He could almost imagine Bertholdt’s smirk. _“Would it turn you on if I say I am?”_

Yes. “Would it turn _you_ on?”

Bertholdt tutted. _“I’m the interviewer here, Mr. Galliard.”_

Porco grinned. He supposed he could lean into this. “Well, I do like the idea of your coworkers hearing about how good you are at sucking dick. Mine, no less.”

_“How crass.”_

“You didn’t seem to mind two weeks ago.”

 _“So you’ve been counting the days.”_ Bertholdt’s tone was playful. _“Do you miss me that much?”_

Porco shut his eyes. He really wished he hadn’t worn jeans now, because they were growing awfully tight. “Some parts of you.”

Bertholdt laughed. It was a low, tinkling sound. _“If it were only parts of me, I’m sure you can find them in someone else.”_

Porco gritted his teeth. Bertholdt had seen through him again. “Look,” he said, sick of games. “I want to do it again. Do you?”

He held his breath. Not for long, though, because Bertholdt’s response was almost immediate. _“I don’t do encores.”_

Oh. Porco didn’t really knew what that meant. Did Bertholdt just reject him?

“Uh,” he said, unsure of what else to say. “Okay. I don’t know why you called me then.”

 _“I meant with what we did last time.”_ An amused chuckle. _“You don’t have to sound so disappointed.”_

“Oh.” Then, realizing what Bertholdt is saying— “ _Oh._ ” He felt absolutely embarrassed by the excitement that flooded him. “What do you have in mind?”

“ _Well,_ ” Bertholdt said. _“For one, I’d want to know what it feels like to be inside you.”_

Porco would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. He could feel the excitement building even as Bertholdt suggested it. “I think I can make that work.”

_“Eager, aren’t you?”_

“Says the guy who asked.” He checked his watch again. “Come by my place tonight.”

_“Tonight?”_

“If you’re free.”

Bertholdt coughed. _“My work may end late.”_

“I sleep late.”

_“You really are eager.”_

“Shut up,” Porco mumbled. “Are you coming or no?”

A pause.

 _“Okay,”_ Bertholdt said. _“Don’t start the fun without me.”_

Porco couldn’t help but grin. “No promises on my end.”

 _“Again. Eager.”_ Bertholdt hummed. “ _I’ll see you tonight, Mr. Galliard.”_

The call clicked shut.

The next few hours felt long. Too long. He had gone home almost immediately and showered and re-showered, then spent the rest of the time restlessly checking his hair in the mirror. Why was he even this nervous? He had been with Bertholdt before. And others. This was nothing new. Still, he fidgeted as the clock ticked on.

Close to midnight, the intercom buzzed. The doorman was polite when he asked Porco if he’d want a “Bear-thot” Hoover to come up. Porco struggled not to laugh.

“Yes,” he said. “Let him in.”

Bertholdt looked irritated when he appeared in Porco’s doorway. “I think that doorman butchered my name deliberately.”

Porco snickered. “I’ll put your name on the list so they won’t have to ask anymore. Now—“ He pulled Bertholdt flush against him. “Where were we?”

He leaned in to kiss Bertholdt, but something crinkled from between them, stopping him. Porco frowned. Bertholdt raised a plastic bag. “Oh, sorry. I picked up something.”

“You got me a gift?”

“Well, not exactly.”

Porco took the bag and peeked inside. “This is mostly trash.”

“I had to eat on the train. Look under it.”

Porco grumbled as he swept aside an empty can and sandwich wrapper. He knew what it was before he even pulled it out. “Condoms?”

“Just in case.”

Porco squinted. “Do you think I’m that reckless to not have protection?”

“Well, who knows how old they’d be.”

Porco gaped. “Are you implying that I don’t get laid?”

“No, I’m just implying that you don’t seem—“ Bertholdt waved his hand. “On top of things.”

“ _What_?”

“I mean, your apartment looks pretty bare.” Bertholdt looked around. “All your food canisters are empty. Why do you even have so many?”

“I’m not home much!”

“You’re proving my point.”

“Yeah, well, my point is that I do get laid, and—“

“Name the last time then.”

“That’s—“ Porco frowned. “I have a busy schedule, I can’t be expected to keep track of everything—“

“Uh-huh.”

“And I travel a lot!”

Bertholdt smiled. “And I imagine most people won't even try to reach out to a business email.”

Porco flushed.

“Again.“ He wrapped one arm around Bertholdt’s waist and pulled him closer. “You’re so lucky you’re cute.”

He finally got to kiss Bertholdt then, the fire still new yet familiar from their last time together. He could taste the mint on Bertholdt’s tongue — probably from gum — and he smirked at the idea that Bertholdt, too, had prepared himself for this.

Porco suddenly couldn’t wait any longer. He grabbed at Bertholdt’s wrist and led him to the bedroom. He didn’t even bother to turn the lights on and they fumbled in blindly, falling back onto the bed. Bertholdt crawled on top of him, his lips immediately seeking the crook of Porco’s neck and sucking gently on a spot. Porco hissed and bucked his hips up.

“If I have to wear a damn turtleneck to work—“ He didn’t even know what to follow that up with, his mind fraying.

Bertholdt hummed against his skin. “I’m sure your makeup artist will know what to do.”

“I’m not always being dolled up for TV!”

“Oh?” Bertholdt pulled Porco’s t-shirt over his head, tossing it away quickly as he ducked back to trail kisses down Porco’s collarbone, then on the outline of the tattoo on his chest. “I guess I’ll just have to pay attention elsewhere, then.”

He tugged at Porco’s sweatpants, shimmying it down. Sensing what’s to come, Porco held up a hand. “Wait. Hang on.” He reached out for the bedside drawer, grabbing a bottle of lube. He tossed it over to Bertholdt and grinned. “You do the work this time.”

Bertholdt raised an eyebrow. “Because you had such a long day drinking with the Tyburs?”

“It’s my only day off!”

“I’m teasing.” Bertholdt’s lips were already pressed up against his tip, the ghost of a smirk barely visible under the light that filtered in through the windows. Porco’s breath began to hitch. “I can’t wait to see you lose it again.”

The next thing he knew, Bertholdt had licked a stripe along his length. The sensation shot straight up to his brain and Porco fisted his hands into the sheets, struggling to hold back his moans as Bertholdt took his entire length into his mouth and started bobbing. Even in the cover of darkness, he could see Bertholdt staring up at him, watching his every reaction.

“Shit,” he gasped out, feeling the heat building low in his gut. “Why are you so good at this?”

Bertholdt’s mouth released with a loud pop. Porco could hear the bottle of lube being opened. “Don’t get too excited yet, Mr. Galliard.”

It’s hard not to, because now he could feel Bertholdt’s thumb, pressing wetly against his entrance. Porco hissed as it began to draw circles, applying the slightest of pressure, teasing. Porco’s legs spread wider in response.

“God, you are eager.” Bertholdt’s voice was becoming equally ragged. His mouth ghosted against Porco’s inner thigh before biting down, gently, just enough to draw out a hiss.

Porco groaned. “Just put your finger in me.”

Bertholdt glanced up, a glint in his eyes. “Only if you ask nicely.”

Porco sucked in all his pride. “ _Please_ , Bertholdt.”

A quiet laugh. “You learn so fast.” The thumb was gone now, replaced quickly with Bertholdt’s middle finger, slicking easily into Porco. He bucked his hips into it, already desperate for more, but Bertholdt effortlessly pressed his other arm across Porco’s abdomen, pinning him down.

“Be patient.” Bertholdt’s voice was low, firm. Porco held his breath, surprised to find this sort of strength to Bertholdt. Even more so, he was surprised to find that _he_ liked it, his body surrendering easily, melting away, especially when Bertholdt gave a nod of approval. “Good, Mr. Galliard.”

The finger inside him began to move, slow at first, then faster, sliding in and out at a delicious rhythm. Porco groaned. Just as he thought it couldn’t feel better, Bertholdt ducked down and took him into his mouth again.

Any self-control he had was gone. He slumped back onto the bed and let himself get lost in the sensation. It wasn’t long before he was asking for more and Bertholdt obliged quickly, putting another one of his long fingers inside him, hooking them just right to leave Porco aching for the real thing, especially when he felt himself closer — too close — to spilling over the edge.

“Stop,” he gasped, almost pulling away.

Bertholdt immediately slid off him, worry across his eyes. “Sorry. Did it hurt?”

“What? No.” Porco sat up, hastily unbuttoning Bertholdt’s shirt. Why is he still dressed? He accidentally ripped a button clean off as tugged it off of Bertholdt. “Fuck me. Now.”

Bertholdt laughed. “This desperate already?”

Porco didn't even care to play cool anymore. “I’m going to leave you hanging if I come before you’re inside me.” He pulled Bertholdt in for a kiss, his fingers trailing down to Bertholdt’s lightly toned chest, pleasantly surprised at the feeling. Again, who’d guess?

“Lay back down then,” Bertholdt muttered — commanded — against his lips.

Porco shivered. He couldn’t say no to that even if he wanted to. He obeyed quickly, watching as Bertholdt shed the rest of his clothes and rolled on the condom. He wished he had turned the lights on now, if only to see Bertholdt fully nude, but there would be other times, many other times, he hoped. The mattress sank as Bertholdt clambered back on top of him.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asked. Porco could feel Bertholdt’s length pressing up against his thigh and he sighed, already imagining the feeling.

“Yes.” He bucked his hips up to meet Bertholdt’s, the friction leaving them both a little breathless. “Come on.”

“It’s just that you haven’t done it in a while—“

“Bertholdt.” His hands wrapped around Bertholdt’s back, fingers digging in urgently. “I haven’t been with someone in a while, sure, but…“ He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Bertholdt blinked, then laughed. He lowered his head, breath tickling against Porco’s earlobe. “Alright then, Mr. Galliard.” Porco could sense the smirk. “I’ll give you something nice to think about when you’re alone.”

Porco's grip tightened. “You better.”

Bertholdt began to push in. Porco moaned aloud, not even restraining himself. Every part of him was on fire — the warmth of Bertholdt’s body on top of him, the warmth that _is_ Bertholdt filling him to the brim. It took a moment to get used to — Bertholdt wasn’t exactly small — but he moved slowly, patiently, until Porco could finally feel their hips flush against each other. He couldn’t believe how good it felt. It must have really been a while.

Bertholdt’s breaths felt heavy against the side of his neck. “Okay?”

Porco grunted, impatiently. “Yes. I’ll tell you if it hurts.” He wrapped his legs tightly around Bertholdt’s hips. “Now move.”

There was no resistance on Bertholdt’s end. He began to roll his hips, shallowly at first, testing the waters. Heat pulsed through the course of Porco’s body, and just as it was becoming agonizingly not-enough, Bertholdt propped himself up on his elbows, adjusting his angle. His strokes turned deeper, quicker, their slaps of their skin echoing through the room. Porco watched as the control in Bertholdt’s eyes began to fade, glazing away with each thrust.

He could’ve let go of himself and given Bertholdt a show. But this was more fun, he thought, to stifle back his own moans and relish in the look of Bertholdt’s face, similarly holding back. “Already getting there, Mr. Hoover?”

Bertholdt chuckled, ducking down his head, hiding. There was no concealing the raggedness in his voice, though. “You wish.”

“Mmh.” Porco bucked his own hips up, meeting Bertholdt’s, drawing out a sharp grunt. “Pull out.”

Bertholdt’s head bobbed back up, his eyes blinking. “What?”

“Pull out. I want to get on top.”

When Bertholdt didn’t react in time, Porco gripped tighter with his legs and threw back against the mattress, using the momentum to roll Bertholdt onto his back. A feeling of triumph flooded over him.

Bertholdt laughed from beneath him, his dark hair splayed out messily across his forehead and the bed. “I thought you want me to do all the work.”

“I changed my mind.” Porco began to rock his hips. He gripped Bertholdt’s chin, leaning in closely. “No hiding now, Mr. Hoover.”

He raised his hips as far as he could, and thrust back. Bertholdt moaned aloud, his hands fluttering to Porco’s hips, gripping hard. “Shit.”

Porco could do with a reaction like that. He started bouncing, watching as Bertholdt’s expression scrunch in pleasure, eyes fluttering shut and fingers digging deeper into Porco’s skin. From this position, there was no way for Bertholdt to hide. “Good, I take it?”

Bertholdt whined. His eyes opened, half-lidded. “If only to see you working hard,” he muttered. “For once.”

Porco growled and threw his head back, trying to get the hair that had fallen over his forehead out of his eyes. “I swear if you didn’t feel this good, I would’ve…”

He didn’t quite finish the sentence, because Bertholdt suddenly sat up, surprisingly quick. He wrapped one arm around Porco and adjusted their position, wrapping Porco’s legs around his waist. Bertholdt gave a quick thrust, catching him by surprise.

“Mr. Galliard,” he breathed, desperation lacing his voice. “Are you close?”

Porco didn’t see the point in lying. He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Bertholdt’s hand grasped around in the dark, finding the bottle of lube. He squirted some over his hand before wrapping it around Porco. The sensation sent a sharp tingle up his abdomen. “I want you to come for me, then.”

Bertholdt started stroking. Porco groaned. As much as he wanted to see Bertholdt come first, he couldn’t deny himself this, the pleasure building quickly as he continued to roll his hips and Bertholdt’s strokes grew faster.

“Come on,” Bertholdt muttered. It sounded more like a plea than a command. He must be aching for release too. “Come for me, Mr. Galliard.”

Porco shut his eyes. He let himself get lost in the thought of Bertholdt, everywhere on his skin, inside him.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

He came, spilling over Bertholdt’s hand and onto his stomach. It wasn’t long before Bertholdt followed along, hips jerking into Porco’s, a shuddering moan muffled against his shoulder.

“Fuck,” Bertholdt muttered. He tilted his head up, pressing a kiss that didn’t quite land on Porco’s lips. Porco could feel his breath trembling. “That was…” He seemed to be at a loss for words.

Porco smirked. “You, not knowing what to say?” He slid off. “I must have really done your head in.”

Bertholdt sounded sheepish. “Maybe so. Just a little.”

“Best sex of your life then.”

“You just don’t know when to stop, do you?”

Porco laughed. “And will it kill you to admit you like something I did?”

Bertholdt shook his head. “More importantly—“ Lips ghosted over Porco’s cheek, pressing light kisses. “Did I give you something nice to fantasize about?”

Porco rolled his eyes. Instead of answering, he moved his face, catching Bertholdt’s lips with his own, tasting the salt on his tongue. He found that he didn’t mind it. It was sort of funny to think that this was the same Bertholdt he wanted to strangle just a few weeks ago.

Bertholdt broke the kiss first. “Bathroom?” he asked, already sliding off the bed.

Porco pointed. “Help yourself.”

He turned on the bedside light and was greeted by his own reflection on the closet door mirror. His hair, tousled, slick with sweat. He grimaced and chose instead to linger on the sight of Bertholdt, at the muscles he had just gotten a peek of, the way his hair stuck out at angles that oddly made him more attractive. He could get used to this sight.

Bertholdt’s eyes met his through the mirror. “ _That’s_ your mirror?”

He supposed it was an extravagant thing, spanning almost the entire bedroom wall. “Yeah. Nice, right?” He sat back against the headboard. “Imagine the things we can do in front of it, babe.”

A glare. “ _Please_ don’t call me babe.”

“All the more reason to, if it pisses you off that much.”

Bertholdt sighed. “Remind me to have you return the favor next time, Mr. Galliard,” he muttered, gathering his clothes. “I’d love for your mouth to be busy doing something else other than… talking.”

“Well, you have my number now.” Porco grinned. “Call me, babe.”

Bertholdt responded by throwing a pillow at him.

———

As luck would have it, though, Porco didn’t even have to wait for a call to see Bertholdt again.

He couldn’t quite believe it at first. He arrived at the museum for the Reiss Foundation fundraiser, expecting to endure a boring gala and to leave within hours with a charitable dent in his bank account. Maybe he’d get tipsy if he’s lucky. After all, what would Bertholdt be doing at this kind of an event? It was unmistakable though — the slightly unruly hair, the olive green eyes. Those damn loose cuffs. Bertholdt was sitting at one of the dinner tables, looking completely bored.

Naturally, Porco had to approach him. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Bertholdt didn't even turn around. “Mr. Galliard.”

He took a seat next to Bertholdt. “Really? Not even a glance? That’s cold.”

“I know your voice enough to know.” Bertholdt actually turned to look at him now. He scanned Porco. “Nice suit.”

Porco grinned. “Already undressing me with your eyes?”

“Don’t be crude.” Bertholdt turned away, looking ahead at the stage. His lips curled into a smirk. “I take it you’ll be bothering me all night?”

“Depends,” Porco said, looking around. “Where’s your plus one?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Oh, then I’ll definitely be bothering you all night.”

Bertholdt raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t bring anyone?”

Well, he almost brought Marcel along, except his brother had insisted on staying home and watching some football game instead. “But free food!” he had tried to persuade Marcel, to no avail. Now he’s rather grateful that he came alone.

“I guess you’re stuck with me,” Porco said. He raised an eyebrow at Bertholdt’s place card. “That’s not your name.”

Bertholdt shrugged. “Obviously I can’t show up with my real one.”

Porco leaned on his hand. “Why _are_ you here anyways? You don’t seem the type to be participating in silent auctions.”

“I like food. And art.” Bertholdt took a sip from his wine. He looked down at Porco through long lashes, almost mysterious when he said, “Also, Historia invited me.”

Porco frowned. “You know Historia Reiss.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you shit on me for mingling with the Tyburs.”

“That’s not why I’m critical,” Bertholdt panned. “I have no problem with who you associate with, elite or not.”

“Oh?” Now Porco wanted to know. “Then why?”

“I thought you don’t care for my opinion, Mr. Galliard.”

He coughed. “I don’t.”

“Then let’s let sleeping dogs lie.” Porco suddenly felt something nudging against his leg, rubbing up on him. He realized it was Bertholdt’s shoe. “After all, you only care about parts of me. Right?”

Porco sighed. His hand trailed down to Bertholdt’s thigh, just under the table cloth. “Right.”

“Now—“ Bertholdt’s shoe hooked around Porco’s, putting their calves flush against each other. “Shouldn’t you be heading to your own table?”

Porco groaned. He supposed this wasn’t really his place. As much as he wanted to stay there and feel Bertholdt against him, he had to do something. “Be right back.”

He plucked the place card in front of him and went to switch it with his own. He placed his name next to Bertholdt’s fake one triumphantly. “There,” he said, hand immediately returning to Bertholdt’s thigh. “Now we won’t have to blow our brains out during this event.”

“Mmh,” Bertholdt hummed. “I think it’s a little too early to tell.”

“Are you saying I’m not entertaining enough?”

Bertholdt merely smiled. “It’s not that.”

As if on cue, he heard a voice. Familiar, in a bad way. “Galliard?”

Oh no. Porco felt chills sinking into his chest. He turned around, slowly, dreading what’s to come.

And there he was: Reiner fucking Braun. Waving at him. Sitting down at the table. He looked sheepish when he said, “I didn’t expect to be placed at the same table with you. It’s been a while.”

Yes, because every event organizer worth their salt would know to separate them at least three tables apart, and —

Wait. Reiner had sat down two seats away from him, leaving one chair empty between them. That’s good. That meant he could at least get some buffer from this rhinoceros, unless that chair is meant for Reiner’s plus one, and that plus one is—

“Little Pock!”

Porco shut his eyes. And that plus one is his _mother_.

Karina sidled up to the table, placing her purse carelessly over Porco’s utensils. “It’s been so long! How’s your mother?”

Porco pulled the most painful grin he had ever mustered. And he thought he’s used to pageantry. “She’s good, thank you, Ms. Braun.”

“So polite!” Karina pinched his cheek. Porco kept his face as taut as possible, screaming inside. “Just call me Karina, dear.”

Bertholdt was stifling back laughter. Porco kicked him squarely in the calf. “By the way,” he said through gritted teeth. If this was Bertholdt’s way of fucking with him, he’d be damned to let him go. “Have you met my plus one, Ben?”

Bertholdt cast him a withering glance. A look that screamed, why did you drag me into this? Karina tutted, studying Bertholdt’s face. “t’s a pleasure to meet you.” She lent one hand out to Bertholdt, nails long and immaculately painted. _A witch’s hand,_ Porco thought. “I’m Karina. This is my son, Reiner.”

“Nice to meet you,” Bertholdt muttered, shaking her hand. Then Reiner’s. Porco had half a mind to karate chop their hands apart.

“So this is who you’re dating?” Karina’s voice was saccharine. “You’re so lucky! He’s a handsome one.” She turned towards Reiner and sighed, dramatically. “See, Reiner? You should work less. Even Pock managed to get someone as handsome as that.”

The insinuation wasn’t lost on Porco. He cleared his throat, loudly. “We’re not dating.” Anything to make Karina fluster.

Except she only widened her eyes. “Oh? Then Ben, maybe you and my Reiner should exchange phone numbers…”

Porco really did walk right into that one. The moment the server poured wine into his glass, he grabbed it and drained it clean, barely listening as Bertholdt politely wormed his way out of the conversation.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to reach out to you,” Karina turned back towards Porco, her tone suddenly grave. “I read the recent reviews. How terrible.”

Porco narrowed his eyes. “I’m over them.”

“It’s just so shocking to see that critic be so harsh!” she laughed. “He gave such a nice review for our restaurant. What’s his name again, Beer-thot Hoover?”

Bertholdt hissed next to him. Porco was at least grateful that the buzz from the wine hit him quickly, and even more so when the server refilled his glass.

“Like I said,” Porco replied, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “Fuck the critic.”

He gave Bertholdt’s thigh a squeeze for effect.

It did the trick. One use of the f-word was what finally deterred Karina from talking to him, literally wrinkling her nose and turning away to whisper to Reiner. Porco leaned in towards Bertholdt. “Drink up,” he muttered. “You’ll need it.”

Bertholdt took a huge swig from his glass. “I almost regret doing this to you. Almost.”

The wine helped, because at the very least it got Porco through the dinner and into the silent auction portion of the night. Karina and Reiner had left the table, sauntering off to look at the items for display.

“Look at them,” Porco mumbled, seething. “I’ll bet Karina’s eyeing the sapphire necklace. I have half a mind to outbid her and give it to my mother instead.”

Bertholdt laughed, loose and carefree. His cheeks were tinted pink from the alcohol. “I didn’t know your bad blood with the Brauns runs so deep.”

“Well, now you know,” Porco grumbled. Although he rather liked the way Bertholdt sounded right now. “Karina will scar you for life.”

“I understand your beef with her, but—“ Bertholdt smiled. “Reiner? He seems fine.”

“That’s because you don’t know him!” Porco stabbed his point finger into the table. “He has nothing special going on, and yet he stole this job from me just because he’s a good kiss-ass—“

“But isn’t that almost ten years ago?”

Porco stared. “How do you know?”

Bertholdt’s cheeks darkened. “I do research on my subjects.”

“Stalker.”

“It’s my job, Mr. Galliard.”

Porco sighed, and stood up. He didn’t feel like ranting about Reiner or Karina all night. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To look at what crap I can buy for charity.”

Porco offered his hand. To his surprise, Bertholdt took it, and Porco let go almost immediately, his senses kicking in. They must be drunker than he thought. Now he understood why the servers were so generous with the wine, though; everywhere around him, rich benefactors were laughing, tipsy, typing in numbers that he’s sure would be far too generous for anything in the hall.

In the end, though, Porco had to choose something. He settled on some vacation package for two and quickly typed in his numbers.

“For my parents,” he explained. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning our honeymoon just yet.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Bertholdt shifted next to him. “I thought you were gonna buy the necklace for your mother.”

Porco shrugged. “She’s not into jewelry.” He glanced at Bertholdt. “Unless you want to wear it. I’d love to see Karina’s face.”

Bertholdt laughed. “Sapphire’s not really my color, unfortunately.”

“Right.” Porco studied Bertholdt’s eyes. “I’d say something more like navy. Or elemental, like wood.”

“Don’t make me blush.”

Bertholdt really was. Porco touched his cheek, feeling the heat. “You’re not as cool as you seem to be, Mr. Hoover.”

“I blame the guy who made me drink more than I should.”

Porco laughed. “Well, it’d help you get through the next part.”

“Which is…?” Bertholdt raised an eyebrow. “A special one-on-one with Karina Braun?”

“Possibly worse. For you, at least.” Porco steered Bertholdt back towards the table. As the lights dimmed down and the stage lightened up, he leaned in closely, whispering: “Just wait and see.”

Historia Reiss came onto the stage, beaming. “Thank you all for coming tonight!”

She read through a short speech, thanking her partner who couldn’t be there tonight, and detailing the impact that the foundation had achieved in the year. “Of course,” she concluded. “I could never do it without the support of all of you. And the wine that loosens your wallets.”

A small laugh.

“And now,” she said, beaming. “To honor our platinum sponsors, we’ve prepared a little token of appreciation.”

A spotlight came to beam on one of the center tables. Porco grimaced. That was where he’s supposed to be.

Sure enough, Historia read out: “Mr. Porco Galliard, for sponsoring the Ilse Culinary Grant. This year we were able to fund over hundreds of students through culinary school thanks to his kind contribution.” She stared, confused, at the petrified stranger under the spotlight.

“Over here.” Porco stood up, jogging towards the stage. The spotlight followed him hurriedly. Light applause filled the room as he accepted the glittering crystal plaque from Historia, shaking her hand as they posed for the cameras.

She lowered her voice, turning away from the mic. "You didn’t know Reiner Braun would be sitting there, did you?”

“Maybe your organizer just messed up.”

“Don’t insult me, Porco.”

He grumbled. “In my defense, there really should’ve been a bigger sign.”

“Well.” Historia turned away with a smile. “At least you get to sit next to Bertholdt, right?”

Porco stared. “How _do_ you know him?”

But the stage hand had ushered him away, Historia quickly donning her million-dollar smile to introduce the next sponsor. He shrugged it off. Someone like her probably knew every single person in the business.

Besides, now that he’s back in his seat, his attention was back on Bertholdt. He leaned in. “On a scale from one to ten, how terrible was that for you?”

Bertholdt glanced at him. “Why would it be terrible for me?”

“Because I’m—“ He paused. “Being appreciated?”

Bertholdt shrugged. “You did a nice thing.” He clapped for the man on the stage, who was now walking away with the same plaque as Porco’s. “Now, it’s rude to talk during a ceremony, Mr. Galliard.”

Porco was left stunned, the alcohol compounding his surprise. He could barely keep quiet until Historia finally passed on the last plaque and announced that the rest of the museum was now open for the event. “Please,” she said, smiling. “Enjoy yourselves. We’ll announce the auction winners in an hour.”

The moment he opened his mouth, though, someone tapped on his shoulder.

“There you are,” Willy said, his smile taut. “Did the organizer misplace you?”

“Uh.” Porco glanced at Bertholdt, who had busied himself with his phone, ducking his head low. “No, I switched.”

“What? Why would you do that?” Willy cast a polite yet withering glance at Karina. “No matter. I want you to talk someone up, but you weren’t at the table. Will you come meet him, please?”

It wasn’t a question, Porco knew. And that’s how he spent the next god-knows-how-long being roped into a conversation with a restaurateur about their new concept. “We’ll buy a landmark,” the man said excitedly. “Something like a famous person’s home. Oh — even better, an artist’s studio. The more romantic the history is, the better. Then we make it exclusive, _so_ exclusive we don't even put a phone number on the website.”

Porco grimaced. “Then how will people know about it?”

“By email of course.” The man grinned. “They can send us a paragraph introducing themselves. We curate them and give reservations to a few people at a time.” He nodded, vigorously. “A _month_ after we accept them.”

Porco swirled the wine in his glass. “Great,” he mumbled. “Might as well hide the place as well. Don’t even give it a storefront.”

The man’s eyes widened. “That’s brilliant!” he cried. “Somewhere gritty. Somewhere you wouldn’t usually look at. Something like—“ He snapped his fingers. “A butcher’s shop!”

“Sounds great.”

“Oh, it’s fantastic. The contrast between an industrial, down to earth butcher’s storefront and this warm, fine-dining oasis hidden behind it. It’s genius, it’s transcendental, it’s—“

“Mr. Galliard.”

Porco shut his eyes. He felt so grateful to hear that voice that he could turn around and kiss Bertholdt right now. “Yes?”

Bertholdt looked worried, his brow knitted together. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sir, Ms. Reiss wants to talk to you.” He pointed to the plaque in Porco’s hand. “Something about the award. She said it’s misprinted?”

Porco fought back a smile. He turned to the restaurateur, apologetically. “Sorry, Ms. Reiss calls.”

The man shooed him away. “Please, go! Don’t mind me.” He shook his head. “A misprint. That’s grave. Very grave.”

Bertholdt led him quickly out of the event hall, grabbing a wine bottle slyly on the way out.

“Where are we going?” Porco asked, following Bertholdt through the winding hallways. “Something tells me I’m being kidnapped.”

Bertholdt threw him a smirk. “To my favorite part of the museum.”

They walked through a narrow doorway, into a room illuminated dark blue. A projector cast a bright diamond into one of the corners of the room. Every few minutes, the diamond flashed and rotated.

“Uh,” Porco mumbled. “This is your favorite exhibit?”

“Not the exhibit specifically.” Bertholdt sat on a bench by the wall. He looked at Porco. “But it’s dark and quiet here, no?”

This time, when he sat down, Bertholdt leaned in and kissed him, deeply, a hint of wine lingering on Porco’s tongue. He grinned when they broke away. “So this is why you saved me.”

Bertholdt shrugged. “That, and you made my night a lot less boring. The least I could do is return the favor.”

Huh. Porco nudged at the wine bottle. “Not that it’s not hot to see you steal this, but… We don’t have a corkscrew.”

Bertholdt easily opened the cap. “It’s a twist-off.”

“ _What?”_ He grabbed the bottle and read the label. “This is cheap!”

“And yet you’ve been drinking it all night.” Bertholdt smirked. “Don’t be a snob, Mr. Galliard.”

Oh. He supposed it really wasn’t half bad. He took a swig straight from the bottle and passed it on to Bertholdt. This had been a strange night, he thought. Bertholdt, knowing Historia. Historia actually sensing something between them. There were a lot more to Bertholdt that he suddenly wanted to know about.

“How about we play twenty questions?” Porco blurted out.

Bertholdt frowned. “What are we, high school students?”

“Fine, questions then.” Porco waved his hand. “I ask you something. You ask me something. Icebreakers. Just to pass the time.”

“My presence isn’t enough?” Bertholdt put up one hand at Porco’s scowl. “I’m joking. Shoot.”

“How do you know Historia?”

“Through a friend.”

“That’s one well-connected friend.”

“Not really,” Bertholdt said, cryptically. He nudged at Porco’s plaque. “My turn now. Who’s Ilse?”

“Guess.”

Bertholdt smirked. “It’s Mama, isn’t it?”

Porco clicked his tongue. “Not much of a puzzle, to be fair.”

“Why didn’t she come tonight?”

Porco looked down at the plaque. The crystal refracted back a shade of brilliant blue.

“Honestly,” he said. “I don’t think she likes these events very much.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Porco put aside the plaque. “She’ll never admit it to my face, but I think she’d see this as gauche.” He stared at Bertholdt. “You two might get along.”

It’s a shame the room was so dark, because Porco wanted to see if it earned him a blush. “I think that’s jumping the gun, Mr. Galliard.”

Porco laughed. “Right. And she’d probably fight you if she knew you’re the critic.”

A smile crept into Bertholdt’s lips. “What are my odds of surviving?”

“Not good.” Porco took another swig of wine. “She’s a small woman with arthritis, but god help you if she gets going.”

“I see where you get your fire from, then.”

Porco narrowed his eyes. He touched Bertholdt’s cheek, feeling the warmth. “Are you drunk?”

A blink. “Is that really your second question for me?”

“I thought we’re not counting.”

Bertholdt looked at him. Under the blue hue of the room, the shadows on his face were magnified, long lashes fluttering on sharp cheekbones. “I’m not drunk,” he replied. “A little tipsier than I ought to be, but I’m fine.”

“Then why are you so nice to me?”

Bertholdt raised an eyebrow, questioning.

“I mean,” Porco took the plaque into his hand. “We’ve been… pretty civil tonight.”

“Mr. Galliard, we’ve been more than civil the other night.”

“Yes, but—“ He waved the plaque. “Why aren’t you shitting all over this?”

Bertholdt frowned. “Why would I?”

Porco sputtered. “You don’t think this is tacky?” He waved it again. “Or that generosity isn’t really generosity if you get rewarded for it?”

“Believe it or not, I’m not always out to get you.”

He almost sounded offended. Porco wondered if he had stepped over a line there, but then Bertholdt shuffled closer, pressing against Porco.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, touching the plaque. “I think Historia really just wants to do something nice in return.”

Porco stared down at it. He didn’t even understand what had come over him. “Are you sure it’s not just to stroke our egos so we’ll donate more?”

Bertholdt laughed. “Possibly that, too.”

A small, comfortable silence settled in on them. He could hear the muted murmurs of the guests outside the room, the slosh of wine as Bertholdt tipped the bottle over his lips. The reassuring press of their bodies.

It was nice. It felt nice. Until he realized it was unfamiliar, and new, and the room was suddenly pressing in on him, suffocating. “Wanna get out of here?”

Bertholdt blinked. “I thought you have to stay for the auction results.”

“Who cares about that.” He slid one arm around Bertholdt’s waist, pulling him closer. “Wanna go have some actual fun?”

“As tempting as that sounds—“ Porco already felt disappointment sinking in. “I need to get home soon.”

He sighed. “You have curfew or something?”

“Just a roommate who will worry.”

“You’re starting to make _me_ worry that I’m actually a homewrecker.”

Bertholdt laughed. His hand slid around the back Porco’s neck, tipping his face up. “Don’t worry, Mr. Galliard, ” he breathed, his voice low. “Rest assured, you have my full attention.”

Well, if they’re going to part soon, then Porco might as well get something to think about later that night. “How much longer do you have?”

Bertholdt checked his phone. “About ten minutes.”

Porco sighed. “Better make this worth it, then.”

He grabbed at the lapels of Bertholdt’s jacket and closed the gap, pressing him back against the wall. Something clattered onto the floor — his plaque maybe; the wine bottle precariously set aside somewhere on the bench. He couldn't care anymore, because all he could taste and feel was how Bertholdt’s lips were so warm and wet and just right.

“You know,” Bertholdt mumbled, coming up for air. “If we’re going to do this regularly, maybe we should set some ground rules.”

“Oh?” Porco tucked a finger under Bertholdt’s collar, pulling it loose and kissing the skin underneath. “Like, no falling in love with me?”

Bertholdt let out a sigh, of pleasure or exasperation, Porco couldn’t quite tell. “I think I can manage that.”

“Are you sure? I’ve been told I’m irresistibly charming.”

“You really should’ve named your restaurant the Arrogant Swine.”

“A shame it’s taken.”

“But—“ Bertholdt’s hands rested on Porco’s face, stopping him from planting another kiss. “In all seriousness. I think we need rules, Porco.”

He blinked. That’s the first time Bertholdt used his first name without prompting. He clambered off. “Okay. Like?”

“Well, the obvious one is that we’re going to do this just for sex.”

“Sure.”

“And secondly, we won’t talk about work.” Bertholdt paused. “I won’t talk about your restaurants. And you won’t bring up my credibility. Just to keep the peace. Deal?”

Porco thought about it. “Can I still talk to you at events like this?”

Bertholdt shrugged. “As long as you don’t out my identity.”

Porco lent his hand. “Okay then. Deal.”

They shook on it.

“Well,” Bertholdt said, adjusting his collar. “Here’s to hoping that we don’t end up strangling each other to death.”

“But light choking is still on the table, right?”

Bertholdt elbowed him on the side. “Good _night_ , Mr. Galliard.”

Porco sighed, watching as Bertholdt stood to leave. “Are you sure you don't want to come home with me?” He picked up the plaque from the floor and pointed to it. “I have an appreciation plaque.”

Bertholdt laughed. He touched Porco’s chin affectionately.

“Be patient,” he teased. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

And then Bertholdt left. Somewhere in the museum, he heard Historia’s voice coming into focus, light applause trailing after her words. Calling out his name. Porco sighed, and stood up.

Back to business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The Arrogant Swine actually does exist, lol  
> 2) So does the [restaurant](http://www.playearth.jp/eng/bohemian_ny/) discussed by the restaurateur! I played up the ridiculousness but all the details are true.  
> 3) Also I know not all twist cap wines are bad and in fact more producers have been moving towards it, but I imagine Porco would be pretty old-fashioned about it

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated! If you want to talk more about this ship, you can follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/chubbpengi).


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